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Caspian Darkwood
Essos, Qohor57 AC
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I rode until I was in front of a host of five thousand Dothraki, all in steel plate armor and their warhorses armored. Mounted on their horses, and aligned one after the other, they presented an astonishing sight, especially considering that this was not the entire khalasar, but only half.
"Qohor has fallen!" With that simple phrase, the thousands of men shouted and celebrated, happy and joyful to have conquered the city that years ago had humiliated an entire culture. "Let it be known that the Khalasar of the Great Stallion has brought the city of sorcerers to its knees."
Another round of shouts and cheers erupted, and I just smiled in wonder, "Remember, I don't want any innocent to die, at least no more than necessary; the witches will guide you, reach where the last ones protecting the city are, and kill them, I want no survivors. So go." As if given permission for children to leave class, the Dothraki spurred their horses and began to spread throughout the city.
And while five thousand men were not enough, especially for what I was about to start doing, I knew this would only last two days. Since Qrano, Cakoqqo, and Onno would arrive in that time from Vaes Yeraan.
With the sun's rays peeking over the old, strong walls, staining the city red and illuminating the grand mansions, I could see the city's large gates wide open, while a solitary firework rose into the sky, illuminating it with white and blue flashes.
I had given the fireworks to Valka and her sisters; that was the signal that all the city's exits were secured, indicating that the city had fallen under our control. All that remained was for the last rebels to be subdued, and we could focus on dealing with the followers of the cursed thing, and wait for it to come out.
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"The city is secured, all the nobles are dead, their families are taken prisoner, the Unsullied are awaiting orders, everything seems calm," Kinvara said softly, with a quiet smile that had not left her face since the city had fallen.
"As calm as it could be after being conquered," Valka suddenly spoke, looking at Kinvara, and something in her gaze I did not quite like. Had something happened between them that I had not found out about? "We must begin to round up all the fanatics of the Black Goat who are in the city," Kinvara did not seem affected by Valka's abruptness, "but once it is known that we are killing them, they will hide like rats, and it will be almost impossible for us to find them among those who are not fanatics." Essino commented, raising an important factor to address.
"I see no reason for so much preparation, let's kill everyone in the city," Zirqo, like a good Dothraki, imposed something I did not want to do, but the way things were going, no other option presented itself. "It may be cruel, but it is the fastest way." Kinvara agreed with him—yes, of course she would. For her, fulfilling R'hllor's purposes was all that made her live. As is my case now.
"I agree, there may be innocents in the middle, but the world will thank us," I dismissed those thoughts from my mind when I heard Valka propose the same thing. "I… We will talk more about this later," I gave no room for anything else, and made everyone leave the room in one of the mansions of the nobles who had died tonight, but I asked Valka to stay.
"You can't be serious, can you?" I asked her the moment we were alone and the door was closed. She did not answer me immediately, but took off her crown and her mask, leaving them on a nearby table, and then removed the veil from her head. "I am very serious, Caspian. You know there is no way we can know for sure who is a fanatic and who is not. They will hide when they know we are hunting them. You know there is no other way, and yes, I know there may be innocents who die, but I was there in that room when you were with the Red Sorceress, and I know something is tormenting you, and what is hiding here has something to do with it."
I sighed. I was a soldier, I was a soldier. My duty was to protect the homeland, to ensure the safety of innocents, for that cursed reason I enlisted in the first place, and now? Was I supposed to leave that behind so quickly and start killing children, women, and the elderly? People who had no factor in this, just because I made a deal with a God?
That was not how I wanted things to be. I remember that I partly accepted the deal with Hephaestus because he showed me what would happen if those things remained alive. I had even seen or imagined what would have happened if the Night King had spread throughout the world, many would have died. Good people.
And now was I supposed to do the same just to prevent a greater tragedy? Did the end justify the means I used? I was not willing to accept it.
"We will wait, we will proceed as planned, you will divide yourselves through the city, report any gathering of fanatics, we will apprehend them and execute them. Hopefully, the Black Goat will emerge when it begins to notice that sacrifices are no longer made to it daily, and that its source of power is waning." Hopefully, this would delay the innocent blood from dripping.
Valka nodded, put her clothes back on, and stopped before leaving the room; "Just remember that when you must give the order, I will share that burden too, you will not be alone."
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Tyanna of the Tower
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The north wind brings the smell of molten iron and burned flesh. From the window of my tower, I watch as Qohor bleeds under the Dothraki khalasar. The bells of the Temple of the Soul of the Forge toll incessantly, but it is not prayer they cry; it is panic.
The smoke from the funeral pyres seeps through the cracks of my window, bringing with it the sweet stench of scorched flesh. Qohor burns, but not like King's Landing ever did. From the window, I can observe the burned bodies that the Red Priests burn day and night, while every morning one hears how the khalasar drags men, women, and elderly out of their houses and mansions, devouring the city like starving wolves.
Nine years since I detached my destiny from the clutches of Maegor Targaryen. I remember the first time I saw him. Maegor Targaryen, the black prince of Westeros, sitting in a dark corner with three Pentoshi prostitutes whimpering on his lap. He had dried blood on his knuckles and smelled of wine and Valyrian steel. Why did I decide to help him? Because I saw in him what no magistrate in Pentos had the courage to possess. Maegor was not a man. He was a force of nature. A storm in human form. And I... I wanted to ride that storm.
When Alys Harroway took me to Westeros with her, I already knew that I would be his third wife. But I also knew I would be something more. —The invisible hand that pulled the string—
Visenya saw me coming. The dowager queen was cunning as a sand viper. "Take care of my son," she told me in her private chamber. "But remember: Targaryens burn what we cannot control." I knew what I was getting into, and I knew what I could gain when Maegor fully ascended to power. I was not afraid of getting burned in the process.
I smiled and drank from her cup. "Then, my Queen, keep me close to the fire."
And now, nine years later, I am rebuilding from the ashes of my own death. I remember as if it were yesterday when I "ripped out" my life using Maegor as a puppet. Maegor the Cruel... what a pathetic end he had. The potion of basilisk blood and strangler root worked better than expected. When he "killed" me, my body convulsed so convincingly that even Maladon Moore vomited.
The stench of Jeyne Westerling haunted me for weeks. Another abomination. Another dead monstrosity. Maegor was furious. "Sterile witch!" he roared, slamming the council table until it splintered. "You have cursed my lineage!" I knelt before him, fake tears running down my cheeks. "My King, I have failed. Punish me as you wish."
But in my mind, I was calculating. —Three escape routes— The first: the tunnels under Rhaenys' Hill. The second: the Blackwater Bay harbor. The third: my own death.
That night was when I prepared the most complex potion of my life. —Basilisk blood— (obtained from a Yi Ti merchant for three virgin slaves), —strangler root— (chewed 47 times exactly), and my own blood mixed with powdered belladonna.
The concoction was so dark green that it absorbed the light. When the Kingsguard guards—Owen Bush and Maladon Moore—dragged me to the dungeons, I had already taken the first dose.
"Confess, witch," Bush growled as the torturers sharpened their hooks. I took the second dose from a vial hidden in my hair. "It was me," I whispered. "I poisoned Alys. I poisoned Jeyne. And Elinor awaits the same fate." Maegor stormed in, Blackfyre in hand.
Guided as I had hoped, he acted on my impulses, the Valyrian steel plunged into my chest. I felt every inch of the icy blade. But the potion worked. My body convulsed violently. Green foam oozed from my mouth. My eyes rolled back. My heart... my heart stopped.
Or so they believed.
Maegor tore out the still-beating heart and threw it to his war dogs. The animals devoured it in seconds. Maladon Moore vomited on his boots. —But I was breathing— The basilisk potion slowed my metabolism to a near standstill. My skin grew cold to the point of death. The potion had grown a dead organ where my heart should be, while pushing the actual organ to a safe side. And thanks to that, I survived. For three days I remained motionless in the butcher's cart, as they took me to the common grave.
Three days later, when Maegor's butchers came to throw my remains into the pit, I slit their throats with dragonglass hidden in my ring. And the rest... The rest is history that even the maesters would not dare to whisper.
I snap out of my thoughts when another gust of wind enters through the open window, and the smell of burning bodies feels stronger. Sitting in front of the window, I pass my hand over my chest, covered by silk tunics given to me by a merchant from Asshai who paid with his life for looking at me too long.
I feel my skin smooth, like that of a woman of twenty summers, although I have seen more than forty. The claw-shaped scar runs across my chest, exactly where Maegor plunged Blackfyre. I touch it with my fingertip. It still hurts as if the wound were fresh.
A mirror is on the wall next to me, in its reflection I observe the scar, ugly and large, but my skin is still smooth as the Pentoshi marble with which the mansion I called home so many years ago was built.
I open a locked drawer. Inside are letters from my vermin, sweet little things that tell me the city's secrets. Years of selling strange and valuable objects and things in the city have gained me power. The merchants of Qohor pay fortunes for my "youth potions." For my secrets, I charge more, and much more if they wish to know things about those they call their enemies—idiots who believe it's magic. It is just knowing what they fear to know.
One of the letters catches my attention, crumpled and battered, without wax to seal it, as if my vermin had to run out of the place where they heard the information that the letter contains. I open it with fingers that still smell of myrrh and belladonna; ingredients of my acclaimed potions.
—Khal Caspian orders: death to the worshippers of the Black Goat. Their priests will be sacrificed in the dog pit—
I smile. The fanatics of the Black Goat. Those fools with their goat bone necklaces and their eyes crazed by opium. I recognize them better than my own scars. In Pentos they called them the Flagellants. In King's Landing, the Sons of the Warrior. In Qohor... sacrificial meat. I have a preferred nose for them, they smell like decaying flesh.
The Khal was murdering the faithful of the Black Goat, but I knew that many had already hidden, afraid of being burned alive at the hands of the Red Priests. I laughed at that part. Even today, a week after Qohor's fall, I could not understand how the Dothraki worked hand-in-hand with sorcerers.
But perhaps there was reason to believe there was a way to ascend amid the chaos. After all, chaos was a ladder. And I knew when to climb it, or when to jump off when I felt it was about to break.
And this... This was the first option. So I put on my black silk tunic, embroidered with silver ravens. On the belt, hidden among the fabrics, I placed my vials: manticore venom, Tears of Lys, and Maegor's favorite—my midnight nectar—
I left the inn where I was staying, and following the directions of my vermin, I reached a large and luxurious mansion, which belonged to one of the nobles who died when Qohor fell.
The door was open, no one was guarding it, but there was a reason for that; the pile of burned bodies in the middle of the large courtyard kept everyone away, no one wanted to enter the mansion because of the stench.
But I was not alone, I could see Dothraki, although I only recognized them by their braids and their bells, since they wore armor forged in a castle, and something about their behavior seemed strange to me.
"Move a little, and you will die," a cold voice came from behind me, and I felt something pointing at my neck. I opened my eyes surprised, I had not felt anyone approach, and I was sure I would have felt anyone approach.
"Tell me your purpose right now," without turning around, I replied; "I come to see Khal Caspian, I have important information that he would like to know." What was pointing at my neck was withdrawn, and the person walked until they were in front of me.
I had known many things, seen much, things that would terrify any man and woman alike, but the energy, what I felt from whatever was behind the clothes and the veil, was something dark, even macabre. "Come with me."
I followed her, and she led me through cold and silent corridors. I noticed that her steps were not felt at all, even her tunic, long and dragging on the floor, produced no sound. It made me realize that whoever was loyal to that Khal must be dangerous, very dangerous.
We reached the entrance of a room, four Dothraki guarding the double doors. Two of them opened the doors for us, and I could see the inside of the room.
There was not much decoration, no tapestries, or paintings, and only a large circular table was in the middle, with eleven chairs arranged at the table, all occupied. At the head of it, with a large window behind him, was a man. His complexion was pale, his features sharp, his long, deep red hair spread like a waterfall, with some strands in the front resting on the breastplate of the armor he wore. Valyrian Steel armor, if I was to be guided by the marks on the metal.
A crown of the same metal adorned his head, but it was his eyes that made me feel nervous, deep red, as if two burning embers were watching me. I knew he was the one in charge here.
To his right, a beautiful woman was seated, green eyes and jet-black hair, wearing a golden crown, and dressed in the same tunics as the one who guided me to the room. I knew she was the same as the one who had intercepted me at the mansion entrance.
To the man's left, a Red Priestess was seated, if her clothes were clear evidence of such a thing. And the rest of the chairs were occupied by eight men, all Dothraki, but what seemed strange to me is that they wore armor of a greenish metal, which faintly reflected the sunlight.
"Pentoshi," the woman with the crown was the first to speak, in Dothraki with a strange accent, just as the other being had spoken to me. "What is a woman from the city doing here? Give proper reasons, or you will join those who burn in the great courtyard."
I tried to get closer, but the one who had followed me stopped me. In a fraction of a second, she put a sword in front of my neck, and with a voice soft as silk, but sharp as steel; "You will speak from here, do not come any closer, or you will die before saying a word."
"My Khal, I am Tyanna of the Tower. And I know the men of the Black Goat better than their own mothers." If what I said captivated him, he did not let it show, but I could not let this opportunity pass. I slowly put my hand in to avoid being attacked, and took out a leather bag.
One of the men in green armor got up and approached, took the bag with a somewhat angry expression, and carried it to the red-haired man.
Ink and coins rolled out when he emptied its contents onto the table. And among the coins, a lock of blood-stained gray hair. He looked up, "What is this?" he asked, and I could hear his voice for the first time, it was deep and velvety, with an accent I could not decipher.
"That is from the High Sorcerer Thoren. He is hiding in the catacombs beneath the Temple of the Soul of the Forge. He has 47 guards, 23 of them blind eunuchs. The secret entrance is marked with a three-headed goat carved in black basalt, on a tall stone in the Temple wall."
The man exchanged glances with the black-haired woman, and after what seemed like a silent conversation, he looked at me, "If this information turns out to be true, you will receive gold and spice, and if you have more to tell, it will be received." I smiled at that declaration, my purpose was being fulfilled.